The bedroom window’s blinds fail to hold the sun and its rays seep into the room and reach for my eyes. It is a bright morning. I’m now fully up from my slumber and rose with the November sun to greet yet another less than uneventful day.
I’m in a humble cosy apartment in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg that I share with my heavily pregnant girlfriend. The apartment is one above the ground floor and one below the third which is the last one up. This position of the flat is almost like a metaphor for the state of affairs in my life because it’s exactly how I feel, I’m not really down and out but I’m not at the crest of my joys either. I am not completely incapable of achieving the things I want in my life but I’m also not living out my fullest potential in the wider scope of things. I am just in the middle… like this flat. Not first not last. The flat is a roomy one bedroom abode that we furnished ourselves. One double bed with a lot of mileage on it occupies almost the whole bedroom with just enough space to walk around and be able to unfold the ironing board. The lounge looks pretty with earth tone colours all around, masterfully orchestrated by my style savvy girlfriend who is a closet interior designer. An antique of a coffee table that was inherited from somewhere stands on a green and electric lime coloured rug, with one of its legs threatening to give in at will. The TV centres a dark wood TV stand. On the floor is a small MP3 playing boom-box which I am particularly fond of as I am the musically inclined type. It keeps me company on such days and it alters my moods depending on what I want to pop in the deck or want to feel like. If I’m inspired or seeking inspiration I get my Kanye West, TV on the Radio, Empire of the Sun or Theophilus London on. Sometimes I get on some down tempo Little Dragon or some awful jazz and slip into self induced depression and begin feeling sorry for myself.
You see, I’m an out-of-work copywriter and it’s been that way for the latter half of this year. Since June earlier this year I have been to almost a dozen interviews, shook hands with numerous Creative Directors, engaged in some small talk with a couple of bored receptionists with pedestrian personalities serving me all kinds of water. Ice water, tap water, water with lemon, sparkling water, flavoured water, water in a cup, in a bottle, in a glass. Tall glass, short glass, a wide glass with ruggedly engraved detail on it almost as if it’s to help my sweaty palms get a tighter grip while I sit there slicing at the wrist of time, waiting for my appointment. And after all the prescribed smiling, eye contact, firm hand-shaking, hard-selling and last but not least, my water drinking, I get polite no’s and good lucks. If they are kind people sometimes I’ll get a “…tell you what, we’ll keep you in our books and get back to you once something comes up….” In my mind I’m like, “Well fuck you very much Sir for your bullshit drenched kindness, I won’t hold my breath waiting for the sky to fall, deuces!”
At 10 am after a light breakfast and some yoga I get dressed and head out to check my emails and send a couple out. The internet café is a skip and a hop away from my place. I’m grateful for this convenience. The street is quite and still with no passers by or cars in sight, just the loudness of my thoughts. A few paces on, a guy interrupts the rhythm of my stroll and thoughts trying to sell me a few pirated DVD’s with titles I’ve never heard of and loose cigarettes. I am annoyed by him and he can see it from the indifferent glance I shoot him, I shake my head and pass while he mumbles something at me as soon as I’m out of earshot. Around the corner by the dry cleaners is where the internet café is and it’s a bit busy today, more people than usual but there are a few computers free. The guy behind the counter has a beyond the border accent and so do the rest of the guys running the place. I assume they’re from Ghana since he’s wearing their national team jersey. There’s a limping middle aged woman with a handful of papers requesting to fax. I grab a seat and wait my turn next to a girl who’s being chatted up by one of these guys but I’m too deep in thought to eavesdrop. I can tell he’s running game on her cause she’s giggling at everything he’s saying with his barely audible, low “macking” voice. From where I’m sitting all the computers are facing me and I can see what’s happening on people’s screens. Some are on sites I don’t really know, some are on job search sites. Some are… damnit, some are on Face-book tagging away and updating their self absorbed profiles and I can’t help getting irritated at them. I can’t keep myself from feeling like they’re wasting time, frolicking around with the space we use to better our livelihoods. Charge that to my misdirected frustration with my situation.
The counter guy signals me up and I proceed to a designated machine and do my thing. There are no mails, no responses to the countless mails I sent out. I’m disappointed. I take out my piece of paper with a list of email addresses I’ll send to today and send the same plea of employment to all of them. The minute minder on the computer let’s me know that I have just over 5 minutes of online time left and without thinking about it, I log into my Face-Book account. I check my wall and update my status on my profile with a quote or a line from a song, I can’t remember what it was or said but I do remember it being insignificant to me. I log out, thank the guys and walk out the café; past the girl being courted, past the dry cleaners and past the DVD guy with cigarettes, going home. No luck today.
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I’m in a humble cosy apartment in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg that I share with my heavily pregnant girlfriend. The apartment is one above the ground floor and one below the third which is the last one up. This position of the flat is almost like a metaphor for the state of affairs in my life because it’s exactly how I feel, I’m not really down and out but I’m not at the crest of my joys either. I am not completely incapable of achieving the things I want in my life but I’m also not living out my fullest potential in the wider scope of things. I am just in the middle… like this flat. Not first not last. The flat is a roomy one bedroom abode that we furnished ourselves. One double bed with a lot of mileage on it occupies almost the whole bedroom with just enough space to walk around and be able to unfold the ironing board. The lounge looks pretty with earth tone colours all around, masterfully orchestrated by my style savvy girlfriend who is a closet interior designer. An antique of a coffee table that was inherited from somewhere stands on a green and electric lime coloured rug, with one of its legs threatening to give in at will. The TV centres a dark wood TV stand. On the floor is a small MP3 playing boom-box which I am particularly fond of as I am the musically inclined type. It keeps me company on such days and it alters my moods depending on what I want to pop in the deck or want to feel like. If I’m inspired or seeking inspiration I get my Kanye West, TV on the Radio, Empire of the Sun or Theophilus London on. Sometimes I get on some down tempo Little Dragon or some awful jazz and slip into self induced depression and begin feeling sorry for myself.
You see, I’m an out-of-work copywriter and it’s been that way for the latter half of this year. Since June earlier this year I have been to almost a dozen interviews, shook hands with numerous Creative Directors, engaged in some small talk with a couple of bored receptionists with pedestrian personalities serving me all kinds of water. Ice water, tap water, water with lemon, sparkling water, flavoured water, water in a cup, in a bottle, in a glass. Tall glass, short glass, a wide glass with ruggedly engraved detail on it almost as if it’s to help my sweaty palms get a tighter grip while I sit there slicing at the wrist of time, waiting for my appointment. And after all the prescribed smiling, eye contact, firm hand-shaking, hard-selling and last but not least, my water drinking, I get polite no’s and good lucks. If they are kind people sometimes I’ll get a “…tell you what, we’ll keep you in our books and get back to you once something comes up….” In my mind I’m like, “Well fuck you very much Sir for your bullshit drenched kindness, I won’t hold my breath waiting for the sky to fall, deuces!”At 10 am after a light breakfast and some yoga I get dressed and head out to check my emails and send a couple out. The internet café is a skip and a hop away from my place. I’m grateful for this convenience. The street is quite and still with no passers by or cars in sight, just the loudness of my thoughts. A few paces on, a guy interrupts the rhythm of my stroll and thoughts trying to sell me a few pirated DVD’s with titles I’ve never heard of and loose cigarettes. I am annoyed by him and he can see it from the indifferent glance I shoot him, I shake my head and pass while he mumbles something at me as soon as I’m out of earshot. Around the corner by the dry cleaners is where the internet café is and it’s a bit busy today, more people than usual but there are a few computers free. The guy behind the counter has a beyond the border accent and so do the rest of the guys running the place. I assume they’re from Ghana since he’s wearing their national team jersey. There’s a limping middle aged woman with a handful of papers requesting to fax. I grab a seat and wait my turn next to a girl who’s being chatted up by one of these guys but I’m too deep in thought to eavesdrop. I can tell he’s running game on her cause she’s giggling at everything he’s saying with his barely audible, low “macking” voice. From where I’m sitting all the computers are facing me and I can see what’s happening on people’s screens. Some are on sites I don’t really know, some are on job search sites. Some are… damnit, some are on Face-book tagging away and updating their self absorbed profiles and I can’t help getting irritated at them. I can’t keep myself from feeling like they’re wasting time, frolicking around with the space we use to better our livelihoods. Charge that to my misdirected frustration with my situation.
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